Pyper Tan‑Milseán had not set foot in Caldwell for nearly twenty years. Yet here she was, standing before the charred remains of her family’s candy factory, the place where fire had stolen her parents and scarred her childhood. The air was heavy with memory, and every step toward the factory door felt like walking back into the flames.

She remembered the hallway — the trembling walls, the floor rocking beneath her small feet, the inferno breathing down her neck. Her father’s voice had cut through the roar of fire: “Pye‑pye, run. Go get Nana and Pop‑Pop.”

She had run, legs pumping, heart pounding, until the flames swallowed everything behind her. That moment had never left her.

Now, as an adult, Pyper stood before the office door. Her hand hovered over the handle, trembling. She knew that once she opened this door, she would never be able to close it again. The past was waiting inside, and so was her future.

The metal was cold beneath her fingertips. She drew a breath, steadying herself. Inheritance, fire, and sweetness collide in Caldwell. Pyper turned the handle.